Grandma Betty sat at the kitchen table, knitting warm socks with careful, even stitches. Her passport might have said Elizabeth Margaret, but to everyone in the village, she was simply Betty—familiar, warm, and kind.
The house was quiet with that deep winter hush, only interrupted by the crackle of the radio on the windowsill. Suddenly, the door creaked. She looked up—and froze. Standing in the doorway was… Father Christmas himself. Red hat, white beard, fur-trimmed coat—everything just as it should be.
“Good evening, Betty love,” he greeted her with a smile. “Got room for a visitor?”
She adjusted her glasses, studying his sack and boots before blurting out, “Good heavens, is it really you? What on earth brings you here?”
“What do you mean?” he chuckled. “It’s the 24th of December! The whole country’s celebrating. And here I am—with a little something for you.”
“What do you want with an old woman like me? You should be off with the little ones, listening to their poems and laughter. What am I? Just an old biddy who’s seen it all.”
“Hardly any children left in the village these days. But those socks you’re knitting—now those are proper warm,” he nodded. “So I’d say you’ve earned a gift.”
“Well, if you insist, go on then,” she smirked. “But don’t expect any carols from me—my back’s playing up something awful.”
“Then tell me, what good have you done this year?”
“Me? Oh, I dunno…” Betty mused. “Knitted mittens for the grandkids, socks for the neighbours. Gave away some veg from the garden. Not out of kindness, mind—just had nowt better to do.”
“Now, now, no false modesty. That’s kindness—doing things without expecting a favour back.”
“Mind you, my old man’s off somewhere, as usual. Left this morning, not a peep from him since.”
“I was meaning to pop by him too. Still telling his tall tales, is he?”
“More than ever! Goes round the village spinning yarns, singing old tunes. Keeps everyone’s spirits up, bless him.”
“You love him, don’t you?”
“What do you think?” Betty smiled. “Fifty years together. We play at being hard of hearing, pretending we don’t notice half of what the other does. Never any shouting. What’s the point?”
Father Christmas pulled a soft woollen shawl from his sack—patterned, delicate, with a faint shimmer.
“Here you are. Wear it, and you’ll feel ten years younger.”
“Oh, it’s lovely!” Her eyes sparkled. “Always wanted something like this. Thank you!”
“Thank your husband,” he winked. “He’s the one who wrote to me.”
He stepped into the hall, shrugged off the coat and hat, and tucked them away in the chest.
“Oh, Betty love…” he muttered under his breath. “Didn’t recognise her own husband’s voice. Or is she playing along?”
Meanwhile, Betty twirled before the mirror in her new shawl and whispered,
“That’s how we’ve always been, Johnny love… Acting like we don’t know a thing. But we do. We just love in our own way. And that’s the real magic of it.”
